What Mommy Did
by Happy Sartre
Summary: When Marissa Benson married Daniel Thomson, she thought he was the perfect man. Charming, charismatic, gentlemanly. But when his true colors start to show, Marissa realizes that she must do the unthinkable to protect her precious son...


"Mommy?" Freddie, only five years old, asked Marissa Benson. "When is Daddy coming home?"

"Oh, Freddie." Marissa wrinkled her forehead. She brushed her son's hair back and out of his eyes. She'd have to give him another hair cut soon. "Your daddy isn't coming home."

"Why not?" Freddie asked with a pout.

"Your daddy's in heaven now."

"Well, can he visit us?"

"No, sweetheart. Heaven is a place where you stay forever."

Freddie furrowed his brow. "Will I be able to visit him?"

"One day, Freddie. Years and years and _years _from now, if you are a very good boy, you'll be able to go to heaven."

Freddie thought for a moment. "Okay," he said, before scurrying off to go play with his toys.

Marissa sighed and opened the door leading to the terrace. The rain pattered soothingly against the awning overhead. She had just bought the apartment, and she knew she would have to block off the terrace at some point. Too dangerous with a little boy running around.

There was an Adirondack chair on the terrace, and she sat down in it, leaning back. She looked at the rain dripping off the awning, listening half to the pitter patter of the raindrops and half to Freddie playing inside.

Freddie had never asked questions about his father before. He thought that it was totally normal that it was just him and his mommy. But after seeing all the fathers picking up their children at preschool, he started to wonder. He was starting to ask questions about his father, and Marissa didn't know if she was ready to start answering them.

She knew exactly what she would say, though. She would say that when Freddie was a little over half a year old, her husband drowned in the bathtub. After a few more years, she would reveal to him that his father had been drunk when it happened.

That's what she would say.

Marissa gave a little laugh and shook her head. Yes, that's what she would say. It wasn't a lie, not at all, but it certainly wasn't the _whole_ truth.

She first met her husband, Daniel Thomson, in England during college. She was in her third and final year at the Florence Nightingale School of Nursing and Midwifery, working to get certified in pediatrics. Daniel was one of the doctors working in the pediatric unit, and after he had been assigned to take her group on rounds a few times, they started getting to know each other.

He was charming. So very, _very_ charming. He was charismatic and thoughtful and an absolute gentleman. He was the only man she knew who would always open the door for her and would bring her flowers just because. And when she was around him, she felt, well, smaller next to him. But it wasn't in a bad way, it just that he was protective of her. She knew that he would keep her safe, and, if it came to it, defend her with his life.

He was everything that she could ask for. Sure, he drank his coffee with gin mixed in, in addition to a glass of wine or two at night, but those were little things. She could get over the drinking, because in every other way he was flawless.

Daniel was the perfect man, she thought. The perfect man to raise a family with, which was all she ever wanted to do.

They got married only a month after she had graduated from school. Sure, it was hasty, but it felt right. Marissa Benson—then Mrs. Thomson—wanted to start a family immediately. She knew that she would never find somebody better than Daniel, so she saw no point in waiting. Before the end of summer, they were living in a flat in London and she was pregnant. It seemed like the start to a great life.

But after they started living together (yes, they were old fashioned and didn't move in until after marriage), a little over six months in, things started to change. Daniel was becoming more and more worried about his wife and his unborn child. He started to make Marissa stay inside the house all the time, saying that it was because of the baby. London was a dangerous city, and who knows what could happen to her or the baby when she went walking in the streets by herself—especially at night?

Marissa understood his reasoning, and saw that he just wanted to protect her. So, she started staying inside more. However, the lack of interaction with other people was starting to make her depressed, and she began to cope by cleaning everything, organizing everything, making sure the house was spotless.

It was the organizing part that made the first real spark of trouble. One day, when Marissa was going through the top shelf of the coat closet, she found a box filled with liquor. She had never seen that box before.

That night, when Daniel came home from his shift at the hospital, she was waiting for him at the kitchen table, the box in front of her.

"Hello, sweetheart, how was…" he trailed off as he noticed the box in front of her. "What is that?"

"Why don't you tell me?" she asked very calmly, her hands clasped in front of her. "I found this hidden on the top shelf of the coat closet. Now, do we need to have a discussion? As part of a healthy relationship, we need to be honest and trust in—"

Daniel stormed over to Marissa, and put his hands around her throat. Pulling her up and squeezing her throat lightly, he said, "That box is mine. Don't go snooping around anymore. Because _then_ we will need to have a discussion." He let go and pushed her out of the way, taking the box with him as he stormed out of the flat.

Marissa leaned up against the kitchen counter, shaking. This had never happened before. Who…who had her husband turned into? Her immediate instinct was to call her parents, but they were all the way in America, and she didn't want to tell them about what had just happened. She thought about calling one of her nearby friends, but it was nearing midnight. So instead, she did the only thing she could think of to calm down. She walked into the living room, took out a book, and started reading aloud to her child, her hand rubbing her stomach the entire time.

Two hours passed and Daniel came back. His eyes were bloodshot, and he meekly entered the living room. Marissa was starting to fall asleep, but she woke up when Daniel entered.

He walked over to her and kneeled in front of her, clasping her hands in his.

"I am so deeply and irrevocably sorry for what I've done," he said, his voice thick and slightly slurred. "I had an absolutely horrid day at work, and I'm overtired from working a thirty six hour shift, and I just lost it when I got home and saw the box. Marissa," he said, crying softly and pressing the backs of her hands to his forehead, "I'm so sorry. I never should have hidden that from you. Please, please forgive me."

And how could she not? It was just one thing, one little thing. It would never happen again. They went back to bed, and everything was fine for the next two months.

By then, she was well into her third trimester and hadn't been outside the apartment in weeks. For exercise, she would walk two miles on the treadmill each morning. She and Daniel didn't talk about the liquor, and he acted even sweeter than usual towards her. He would bring home gifts for her every few days—expensive fruits from the farmer's market, a new pair of earrings, a handmade blanket for the baby. But she still couldn't look at him in the same way.

One day, when Marissa was heating up a kettle of tea, the doorbell rang. She answered it and saw a young man from the postal delivery service there, holding a box under one arm and a clipboard in his other hand. He looked about nineteen years old; very skinny and with long hair falling into his eyes.

"'Ello, ma'am," the man said. "I 'ave a delivery 'ere for a…" he looked at the clipboard, "Mrs. Thomson?"

"That's me," she said. He held out a pen and a clipboard for her, with a paper that she was supposed to sign. She took the pen, and right as she was about to sign, the kettle started whistling.

"Oh, it sounds like the tea is ready!" she said. "Why don't you come in and share a cup?"

The man paused for a moment and looked at his watch. "Eh, sure, why not?"

"Come in, come in," she led him to the parlor before going into the kitchen and turning off the stove. She put the kettle and two little cups on a tray before going back into the parlor.

"Oh, let me take that for you," the young man said, standing up and taking the tray from her. "A lady who's expecting shouldn' be carrying around something 'eavy like this."

"Thank you," she said, slowly sitting down next to the man. He poured a cup of tea and handed it to her, before pouring himself a cup.

"M'name's Michael," the man said, taking a sip of tea. "And yours?"

"I'm Marissa Thomson." She blew the steam off her tea before taking a sip.

"Pleasure t' meet ya," he said. "Are you from America? Your accent—"

He was cut off when the door opened. Daniel walked into the room, his eyes darkening as they fell on Michael.

"Who is this?" he said, his voice low and gravely.

"Oh, this is Michael, dear," Marissa said. "He was dropping off a—"

"_GET OUT!_" Daniel yelled at Michael. "Get out of my bloody apartment right now!"

Michael, startled, jumped out of his seat and ran over to the door. He then hurried back to the couch, holding out the clipboard and a pen to Marissa. "Ma'am, if you could just sign this very quickly—"

Ripping the clipboard out of his hand and throwing it on the ground, Daniel grabbed Michael by the back of his shirt and dragged him out into the hallway. Daniel slammed the door and turned back to his wife, glowering.

"Daniel!" she shouted. "What has gotten into you?"

"What's gotten into me? Into _me?_ I'm not the one inviting strange men into our home!"

"He was delivering a package!"

"So? That doesn't warrant inviting in someone you don't even know for a cup of tea! Do you know what might have happened if I didn't come home in time?"

"You are absolutely ridiculous," she said, shaking her head as tears welled up. "Daniel, don't you understand? I'm _so lonely_. I never go outside anymore, and I just wanted somebody else to talk to—"

Daniel stormed over to his wife and pushed her very hard in the shoulder, knocking her back onto the couch. "Well,_ that's_ what the telephone is for!" He ran his fingers roughly through his hair. "Good God, Marissa, what the hell am I supposed to do with you?"

She was starting to sob now. "I'm sorry…"

"Like hell you are."

As she buried her head in her hands and cried, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a shot of vodka. He downed that, and then another, before leaving.

Again, he came back home a few hours later and apologized profusely, saying that he had no idea what came over him. He took her out to dinner in one of the nicest restaurants in London to make up for it, and they pretended as if nothing had ever happened.

It was the start of a vicious cycle. After Freddie, the most beautiful child in the world, was born, the Thomsons started getting into fights every month, every two weeks, every week. They were always over insignificant things, and Daniel started becoming more physical; shoving Marissa around and hitting her. Daniel started to drink more, too, and life was becoming unbearable. Marissa talked to one of her friends, but she left out most of the details, just saying that the marriage was becoming strained. Her friend said that it was stress of the new baby, and that everything would work itself out eventually. Marissa tried to believe her.

While some women complained about gaining weight after pregnancy, that didn't happen to Marissa. She had absolutely no appetite, ever, and during the last months of her pregnancy she only ate because of Freddie. She was under so much stress, eating felt like a chore.

To distract herself from her ever deteriorating marriage, Marissa absorbed herself in caring for Freddie; changing his diaper every two hours, playing intellectually stimulating games with him that she read about in magazines, creating homemade baby foods out of fresh fruits and vegetables from the market down the street.

Freddie became her life, the object that sustained her during her hardest days.

As for Daniel, he didn't see Freddie in the same golden light that his wife did. He thought Freddie was an ugly child, with blank, dark brown eyes, scruffy hair, and a pig-like nose. And there was the crying. Oh, _God_, the crying.

It seemed like it never stopped. Whatever they did for their son, it wasn't good enough. Freddie wanted more. He refused to sleep—he'd cry when he was tired, and then his bawling would keep him awake until he passed out from exhaustion. Daniel couldn't take it.

And what made it worse was that since he now had to provide for a family and help pay off his wife's student loans, he was working more shifts than ever. And when he wasn't at work, he was at home taking care of Freddie. Who. Never. Stopped. Crying.

Because of this, Daniel never got any sleep. The bags under his eyes, the irritability, the fights with his wife and coworkers—they all became as much a part of him as his charm and good nature were only two years ago. The only thing that brought him any relief anymore was alcohol and the sweet, sweet numbness that came with it.

Sometimes Marissa tried to get Daniel to stop drinking. They would have a heartfelt talk, and he would agree to become sober. But only a few weeks later, he'd be drinking again. Other times they would talk about going to counseling, but they never did. If that happened, they would have to admit to others that things were actually wrong. If things were confined in the home, they could still pretend that they lived a normal life.

One night, there was a thunderstorm, and Freddie was even more colicky than usual. Marissa was reading a book in her bedroom, trying to relax, when she heard a thud and her husband cursing.

She immediately tossed down the book and ran into the kitchen to her husband and son. "What's wrong?"

Freddie was lying on the ground next to the counter, howling. Daniel was leaning against the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka in his hand. "I jus' put 'im on the counter," Daniel said, waving the bottle. "'E musta rolled off, er somethin'."

Marissa picked up her son as carefully as if he were made of thin, hand-blown glass and cradled him against her chest. She gaped at her husband in horror.

Very calmly and carefully, but with a light tremor in her voice, she said, "I am taking my son to the emergency room right now."

Daniel began rifling through his pockets. "Jus' wai' a minute. I dunno if I have my keys…"

"No, no," she said. "You are in no condition to operate an automobile. I will drive myself."

Daniel sneered. "Bu' yuh dun drive anymo'."

She snatched the keys from his hand. "But I still know how. You…" she trailed off. There were so many things that she wanted to say to this man, but she didn't want to waste her time. "Just…go take a bath. Get that smell off of you."

She left before Daniel could say anything.

Marissa took her son to the emergency room and got him x-rayed, then examined by a nurse and a doctor. They all said he was perfectly fine, that it's completely normal for a baby to be dropped once or twice, and sent her on her way home. Before leaving, she did her own examination on Freddie, just in case.

Finally content that her precious infant was unharmed, she headed home. The streets were almost empty; it was nearing three in the morning. Freddie was blissfully quiet—the excitement of the night must have worn him out.

After putting Freddie in his crib, Marissa walked into her bedroom and noticed that her husband wasn't there. She then went to the bathroom to check if he was in there.

Sure enough, there was Daniel, passed out in the bathtub, his arm and head hanging over the side. There were two bottles of booze on the floor, one empty and the other spilt over the tiles. The bathwater was filled too high—a little splash would send it rippling over the edge and onto the floor.

All Marissa could think about was how pathetic he was. How did this happen? There was no way that this was the same man that she married less than a year and a half ago. That well-mannered, charismatic, protective man was _not_ the same person as the one she saw before her. There was no possible way.

She shook her head, covering her eyes with her hand. She would have to divorce him—it was that simple. She absolutely could not, under any circumstances, let this man stay in her son's life anymore. God, how did her gorgeous, faultless child even share DNA with this bum?

She walked over to Daniel and kneeled in front of him. She examined the two days worth of stubble on his face and the trail of saliva dripping out the corner of his mouth.

She realized that she couldn't divorce him. Sure, she would get full custody of Freddie, move back to the United States, and vow never to see Daniel again, but that would only work for a few years. Daniel would end up enrolling in an Alcoholics Anonymous program and get sober. Eventually, after maybe two, five, ten years he would visit the US with the intention of seeing Freddie and force himself into her son's life.

And she couldn't let that happen.

Thinking only of Freddie and his future, she knelt in front of the tub, picked up Daniel's arm, and put it into the cold bathwater. He didn't stir, not even a little. Taking a deep breath, she put her hands on top of his head and pushed him down into the water, completely submerging his head. Water ran over the edge. Bubbles ran out of Daniel's nose and he thrashed reflexively a bit, but she put one arm across his torso, keeping him still. Soon, he became motionless, and the bubbles stopped.

Shaking, she stood up and stepped back. An overwhelming feeling of accomplishment filled her and she began to cry. Not from sadness or even horror at what she had just done, but relief. Freddie would always be safe now. _Always._

Still crying, she stumbled out of the bathroom, found the phone in the kitchen, and called the police. The operator was barely able to understand her, but he managed to make out the address and the words 'husband' 'drowned' and 'bathtub.' He immediately alerted the police and sent them over.

When the police officers arrived, they found her weeping over her husband and doing CPR in vain. The officers led her away, and in between sobbing episodes, Marissa explained to the police that her husband had gotten drunk and dropped the baby. She said that she told him to take a bath while she brought her son to the hospital, and when they got back a few hours later, she found her husband dead in the bathtub. She told them that he must have passed out and slipped under. The police patted her reassuringly on the back, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, and shook their heads in sympathy.

They never suspected _anything_.

After the funeral, Marissa changed her surname back to Benson. She kept the 'Mrs.' though, in order to ward off any future suitors. She would never make the mistake of letting another man try to care for her Freddie ever again. She pawned off her engagement ring and put the money made from it in a savings account for Freddie.

She also moved back to America. She first went back to her hometown, just down the street from her parents. She got a job and earned her Bachelor's degree in nursing. As she raised Freddie and watched him blossom in a safe environment, she began to remember what it felt like to be happy. She did not keep in touch with anyone she knew in England.

And now, four years after she killed her husband, she was here, sitting on her terrace in one of the nicest apartment buildings in Seattle. She felt safe here. She _was_ safe here.

And most important of all, Freddie was safe.


End file.
